


Foul Way to a Fair Wind

by ancslove



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: (without the death), F/M, Gang Rape, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Ritual Public Sex, Virgin Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 08:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21473281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancslove/pseuds/ancslove
Summary: “Artemis is angry,” intoned Calchas.  “She is gravely displeased about the defilement of her sacred forest and chosen beast. "As the army waits for a wind to send them to Troy, Artemis demands a different sacrifice.  Defilement for defilement.
Relationships: Calchas/Iphigenia, Greek Army/Iphigenia
Comments: 3
Kudos: 56
Collections: Naughty List 2019





	Foul Way to a Fair Wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohmyvalar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyvalar/gifts).

_“Artemis is angry,” intoned Calchas. “She is gravely displeased about the defilement of her sacred forest and chosen beast. And the Lady was already predisposed to Troy, even before this great offense. And so she demands an unprecedented sacrifice: the innocence and virgin purity of King Agamemnon’s noble blood. As he defiled the Mistress of the Hunt, so now must his own child be defiled. Only then will the wind arise.”_

* * *

Agamemnon watched his host gather and surreptitiously wiped sweaty palms against his robes. He didn’t want to do this. Clytemnestra would never forgive him. The other gods will curse him. And Iphigenia didn’t deserve this. Part of him longed to call off the entire expedition. But Menelaus would throw the girl to the men himself, should he refuse. And Troy’s treachery couldn’t just go ignored. And abandoning such a great undertaking now would brand Agamemnon a coward and a laughing stock. It had to be done. He’d been assured that she would live through the ordeal. Artemis demanded her innocence, not her life. But all the same, her life ended today. What prospects could there be for a princess publicly defiled by an entire army? 

Calchas and his attendants led the princess to the clearing. She was lovely in her bridal finery. Long russet curls tumbled past her shoulders. Agamemnon’s heart twisted, remembering how some in his court had proclaimed her the heir to Helen’s divine beauty, and how he had swelled with pride. Would she still be beautiful after the day’s deeds? Such beauty was a curse.

Iphigenia’s trembling form was dragged before him, and it was easy to push her down on the makeshift stone altar. She looked up at him with pleading eyes.

“Please, Father, I don’t want this.”

“Hush, my darling,” Agamemnon soothed. “You are doing a great service to your father and your kingdom. Your name will forever be remembered and honoured.”

Agamemnon’s hands went to her delicate chiton, slipping the garment from her slim, pale shoulders. 

“Please, Father. Please don’t let them.” 

“Hush, daughter. Close your eyes.”

Iphigenia sobbed and shuddered against the soldiers holding her down, as Agamemnon stripped her bare. He spread her thighs, resolutely avoiding looking down at her tear-streaked face. Instead, he focused on her body. She’d matured considerably since last he saw her. Her breasts were full and firm, with rosy tips that beckoned to be licked and sucked. He catalogued those ripe breasts and gleaming skin and tight body, and evaded her familiar, pleading eyes that had once been filled with filial adoration and now filled with betrayed terror.

Calchas was to be first. So the goddess ordained. Calchas stepped between her thighs, calling on Artemis to accept this offering, as he sprinkled holy oil on the altar, Iphigenia’s spread body, and his own hardening phallus. With one last invocation of the goddess, Calchas pushed forward. Agamemnon turned his head as his daughter’s scream pierced the air. She continued to scream, calling for her father to help her. Agamemnon gripped her writhing thighs and kept his face averted. The soldiers watched and muttered to themselves, and he could tell that they were not murmurs of protest or dissent. 

At last, Calchas was finished. He pulled out and Agamemnon dropped his daughter’s legs as if burned. Blood and semen ran down her thighs, making his stomach turn. He stepped back quickly, and the clearing was eerily quiet save for Iphigenia’s sobs. The soldiers released the girls shoulders and wrists, and Iphigenia curled up on the altar, weeping. Agamemnon wished that his ordeal were over. 

But it was not to be. One defilement was not enough to sate the goddess. Iphigenia screamed anew as soldiers dragged her from the altar. And Agamemnon watched as a new man forced her legs wide and thrust inside. Another wound a hand in her beautiful hair and forced himself into her screaming mouth. Soon his daughter was being raped from both ends, her tears easing the way of the man in her mouth. In a frenzy, more soldiers rushed the altar, and Agamemnon was sure that Iphigenia would be crushed, smothered, or torn to pieces by the numbers of men eager to have their turn. 

There was no semblance of order or organization to the orgy, but eventually the men worked out a way to allow maximum use of Iphigenia’s body. One soldier lay down on the altar with Iphigenia on top of him, on her back. And Agamemnon realized with a start that the man was buried deep between the globes of his daughter’s ass. Another soldier got between her legs, and a third climbed on top to hold her soft, full breasts around his organ. A fourth moved around to her head, sliding between her crying lips. They worked up a hard, fast rhythm, pounding in and out of her helpless holes. More men rubbed themselves against her hands, the insides of her thighs, her feet. How could she survive such use?

Still they continued. Once the current group finished, spilling on and inside her once pure body, more men moved to take their place. Semen dripped from Iphigenia’s breasts, stomach, and ass, glistening in the sun. It spilled from her lips and down her legs. The Princess of Mycenae resembled a common camp whore. 

The next group was rougher, cruder, more inventive. Agamemnon winced as he watched them throw his daughter about. Two men lifted her up between them and impaled her on their cocks, front and back. They pumped her up and down as she screamed freely, before lifting her off their manhoods and tossing her to the next pair. Hands pinched and pulled at her and snagged in her hair to pull her mouth from cock to cock. Suspended in the air, she was fucked and fucked without mercy.

The hours passed and still the men came. They no longer saw her as a royal princess or even as a divine offering. She was a toy to them, a beautiful object to drain their lust. And Agamemnon found himself unable to even blame them. As the girl became further drenched in semen, choking her cries and glazing her face, it became harder for him to recognize the wretched creature as his own sweet daughter. 

At last, the ceremony drew to a close. The last men finished their deeds and then made way for Calchas. The priest once again sprinkled holy oil and prayed to Artemis. And then it came. A breeze, faint at first but growing stronger, bringing fresh, pure air to the polluted clearing. 

Artemis accepted. 

Agamemnon turned on his heel, back toward his tent. He had a war to plan.


End file.
